Lu Bradey, in his white sports shirt and black trousers, laid a false English passport before one of the security checkers.
“I’m staying at the Delaware hotel,” he said. “I will be sight-seeing all day, and then I go on to Ottawa: Hotel Central.”
The guard surveyed him: just another goddamn tourist, he thought, nodded and passed over the clearance chit. Bradey submitted to the body search, then walked out, hailing a taxi that drove him to the Delaware hotel.
Within an hour and a half, with some thirty guards working fast, the last visitors had gone.
Scooner was relaxing. The icon could not, repeat not, have been smuggled out of the museum. It was now just a matter of careful searching to find it. Then he became aware that one of his men was signalling to him. It was a discreet signal and Scooner’s heart sank.
“I’ll be right back,” he said to Keremski, and walked over to where the guard was standing.
“Something odd here, sir,” the guard said. “In one of the women’s toilets.”
Trumbler joined them.
“What is it?” he asked.
Together he and Scooner entered the toilet and the guard pointed to an egg shaped wicker basket with elastic straps, lying on the floor.
“What in God’s name is this?” Scooner muttered.
“Don’t touch it!” Trumbler said sharply. He moved forward, crouched and examined the basket, then he looked up at Scooner. “That’s how the smoke bomb was brought in. Those Vietnamese! Two of them were pregnant!”
“Sir.”
Scooner turned to find another guard at his side.
“In the gent’s loo on the second floor, there is a disguise.”
“Hell!” Scooner exclaimed. “You stay here,” he went on to the first guard, then following the second guard, followed by Tumbler, he walked up the steps to the second floor. The guard opened the door of one of the men’s toilets and stood aside. On the floor was a black coat, a bald wig, a heavily padded waistcoat and a clerical collar.
Trumbler immediately read the photo.
“That fat clergyman! The Vietnamese!” he exclaimed. Shoving past Scooner, he raced down to the lobby. His inquiry as to whether a fat clergyman had been checked out brought a negative reply.
Scooner joined him.
“Those Vietnamese!”
“I have all their names, sir,” one of the guards said. “They are all staying at the Brotherhood of Love hostel.”
“When you were checking them out, did you notice two of the women were heavily pregnant?” Scooner demanded.
“I didn’t notice, sir, but Hurley might. He took the checkout slips and let them out.”
Trumbler said, “I’m calling the Boss,” and dived for a telephone.
Scooner crossed to where Chick Hurley was standing by the exit doors. The excitement over, Hurley was again thinking of his wife. He came to attention as Scooner grabbed his arm.
“Did you see two of those Vietnamese women who were pregnant leave?” Scooner demanded.
Hurley blinked at him.
“No, sir. Of course one of them was taken away in an ambulance, but I didn’t see the other one.”
“Ambulance?” Scooner glared at him. “What ambulance?”
Hurley stiffened.
“Why, the one you sent for, sir.”
“I sent for? What the hell are you yammering about?”
Sweat began to drip down Hurley’s fat face.
“Well, sir, when the smoke started, the clergyman told me this Viet woman, shocked, was in labour, and you had called an ambulance. The ambulance arrived moments later, and two black men with a stretcher carried her out. She was in great pain, sir. As you had ordered the ambulance, I let them out. Did I do wrong?”
Scooner stood motionless, his eyes glazed like a man who had been hit over the head with a length of lead piping.
Trumbler, rushing from the telephone box, grabbed his arm.
“There’s no such hostel as the Brotherhood of Love!”
Scooner drew in a deep breath. He now knew the icon had not only been stolen, but had been smuggled out of the museum.
“It’s gone, Jack! You take over. I’ll talk to this KGB creep. Man! Are we in trouble!”
Trumbler rushed back to the telephone. Thirty minutes later, every exit from the United States of America was slammed shut.
At 11.00 on Wednesday morning, a sleek, impressive-looking van pulled up outside the Lepskis’ bungalow. On each side of the van’s buff-coloured cabin was the magic word: MAVERICK. The van and the name caused curtains to be pulled back, neighbours to walk casually into their gardens and envious eyes to stare.
Carroll had been waiting expectantly, and seeing the van arrive, seeing the commotion it caused was a highlight of her life.
The van driver, a tall, elegant, blond young man, wearing a buff-coloured uniform, laced with brown braid, and a buff-coloured peak cap with a brown visor, carrying a vast parcel, arrived at the Lepskis’ front door.
Carroll practically tore the front door off its hinges as she opened up.
Giving Carroll a shy, smirking smile, this beautiful young man insisted on coming in to unpack the parcel.
“Mr Maverick wishes to be absolutely sure that you are completely satisfied, madam.”
Carroll was reluctant to let this glamorous young man into her home. The living-room, as usual, was in an utter mess. It took Carroll until late in the afternoon to straighten up. Somehow, she and Lepski always left the living-room in a state of chaos before retiring for the night. How this happened, Carroll never understood, but happen it did.
But the blond van driver was so charming, so apparently oblivious to the mess, she regained confidence.
The parcel was unpacked.
“The suitcase with your initials, madam, is packed with your dresses, shoes and handbags,” the driver said. “Mr Lepski’s case is empty. Here is the vanity box. Mr Maverick particularly wants to know if it pleases you.”
Carroll was still drooling over the vanity box, long after the van had driven away. Apart from a de luxe assortment of expensive cosmetics, it included a baby mink crocodile wallet for Traveller’s cheques, her initials embossed in gold, as well as a matching sleeve for her passport and a manicure set, so elegant that Carroll was nervous of touching it.
An hour later, three of her best girl friends, unable to contain their curiosity any longer, came knocking on her front door.
This was Carroll’s moment of glory. The little bungalow resounded to squeals of envy, admiration and warm delight as she displayed her purchases.
None of her friends were content until she had put on each dress and paraded around the messy living-room. As all her friends also had messy living-rooms, none of them cared a damn about the background.
They feasted their eyes on Maverick’s creations, dreaming of the day when someone would leave them money so they too could compete with Carroll.
While Carroll was changing into another creation, her closest friend cut sandwiches, using up the cold chicken and ham that Carroll had put aside for her husband’s dinner. They also attacked Lepski’s bottle of Cutty Sark which Carroll had replaced. The party became quite a party, even to a glee song, led by Carroll at her most powerful, with the others filling in, in a noise that set the neighbours’ dogs howling.
Finally around 18.00, the party broke up. The girls had to rush back to their homes to scrape up something for their husbands to eat. Carroll, a little tight, once again sat before the vanity box to finger the gorgeous bottles and sighing with delight.
Then Lepski arrived.
Lepski had had a trying day. Chief Fred Terrell had returned from his vacation. Lepski had had to fill him in on the various crime happenings since he had been away. Although of little importance, Lepski liked to make out that if he hadn’t been in charge, Paradise City would have been on its knees. Terrell, who knew Lepski well, had listened patiently, nodded and puffed at his pipe. He summed up: ten cars stolen: ten cars recovered, three minor break-ins and five drunken drivers.